


touch

by busaikko



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Prison, Torture, non-verbal communication, touch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-21
Updated: 2008-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busaikko/pseuds/busaikko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John can use Morse code and crude signs, but it takes too long, and John never answers Rodney's questions properly anyway, so finally John asked him to talk: </i>anything, McKay, just get me out of my head for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	touch

**Author's Note:**

> written for the IJ Porn Battle

Rodney doesn't remember how long they have been here. He thinks it's better that way. The cell is dark. He is fed once a day. No one hurts him; no work occupies him; there are no distractions from the chill that is not quite unbearable, or the discomfort of a bed that is not quite comfortable.

John is in the cell next door. Most of the time. John comes and goes. Again, this is not quite ominous enough to make him fear constantly for John's life, or for his own, but it's not good. He can't see John, either because it is dark or because his eyes are fucked up, and John can't talk, because John is _definitely_ fucked up. Rodney almost doesn't want to know. He thinks that Schrödinger's cat must have felt much the same way: that spending time in uncertainty was better than the harsh realities of death and life.

If he reaches out with his left shoulder against the bars and his arm almost fully extended, he can just touch the tips of John's fingers, assuming that John is doing the same thing. He has permanent bruises on his shoulder, because they spend hours like that.

John can use Morse code and crude signs, but it takes too long, and John never answers Rodney's questions properly anyway, so finally John asked him to talk: _anything, McKay, just get me out of my head for a while_.

So Rodney talks. Not about food, because he doesn't want to think about what he's missing. Not about people, because all the people they know have not come to rescue them, and neither of them want to think about what that means. Mostly he talks about sex.

It started after John disappeared for two days. Rodney was frantic to know Where and Why and What Happened, and John had, after a pause, asked him how he lost his virginity. In a snit, Rodney told him. The next day, John asked him to tell him again, and this time Rodney was suspicious.

"Tell me you aren't masturbating," he said. John's fingers against his stuttered, and then made a blatantly suggestive gesture.

"I knew these Russian twins," Rodney said, and then curled his fingers around John's, their sign for good night, good-bye. "Maybe tomorrow."

John invented a sign for _cocktease_.

The story about the Russian twins became a staple in their porn library, along with fantasies about Sam Carter and April Bingham and a few raunchy grad school encounters that Rodney said had happened to someone else, and he'd just read them over the BBS.

Sometimes Rodney can't help himself, and he asks stupid questions, like _Is it bright down here?_ It takes John ages to give Rodney something good enough to derail his worries, but they have time. So he holds his palm flat out and reads what John writes out loud, which makes it seem even more sordid. He keeps his other hand down his pants, and he pretends that it's John's, just as he pretends that it is John talking and not him. He's developing a wonderfully vivid imagination, now that he has the incentive.

_I was so drunk_, John taps out against his palm. _He just bent me over the pool table and shoved right in. He made me come on the eight-ball. The next day it was stuck to the felt. My ass hurt for a week. The next time I was sober. He fucked me on my knees._

Rodney can _see_ it, technicolour and surround-sound, the 3-D loss of another of John's virginities (John has managed to lose an awful lot of them). He grabs John's fingers, silencing them, squeezing hard as he is wiped clear by his own orgasm.

John's thumb strokes over the back of his hand, pulling him through it, holding him, bringing him down. When Rodney can move again, he wipes himself off with the nasty washcloth that's one of the cell's amenities and stammers out something inane: _that was really hot_ instead of _if I'm going to die here, then I'm selfishly glad for your company_.

John's fingers wrap around him and hold for a moment, and then John says good-bye, and then it is dark and silent. Rodney sleeps curled around his hands, holding the touch as best he can.


End file.
